


Aftermath: After The Fall

by The_Thieving_Magpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Cheating, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Sheriarty - Freeform, Threesome - M/M/M, jimlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2018-09-15 01:05:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9212657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Thieving_Magpie/pseuds/The_Thieving_Magpie
Summary: Sequel to Misfire.Jim Moriarty has survived the suicide attempt. Recovered, he had been in a mental institution under extreme secrecy and guard. His entire network is broken, and Sebastian Moran is in prison. Sherlock and John disagree violently as to his future, and all John wants is Sherlock back. But now he's not certain he ever really had him at all.Especially when Jim moves in, literally and figuratively.**Follow me at:https://moriarteaze.dreamwidth.org/Discord:  Moriartease#3164





	1. Fear And Loathing

 

**2 Years Post Misfire**

 

"Are you _joking_? I mean seriously .. we've had this discussion. It's him or me. He can't come here. Make any other arrangements for him. But he can't come here. If he comes here, I leave. Pretty simple to deduce."

"Preposterous."

"Sherlock, I am not bluffing. I won't be in the same house with him. I refuse to be."

"Why?"

" _Why_?! After all he's done?! Insane or not, Sherlock, for God's sake!"

"Forgiveness is next to Godliness. Or something like that."

"You're way off there."

Sherlock stirred his tea in irritation. "James is not a threat to us anymore, John. Please .. can't you believe me on that?" He was losing his patience. And he wasn't going to back down on this. "I need him to be here, where I can watch him, monitor his progress, make sure he stays on the straight path. I mean after all, you keep insisting the network is down but is it really? What if he's put somewhere and then goes missing? What if they aren't broken down but go in and get him, put him right back in charge of everything?"

John hissed out air softly. "You're looking for any excuse in the world to get him here, Sherlock. What's really going on?"

"You're jealous! Of my nemesis, my enemy! James Moriarty keeps John Watson awake into all the still hours of the night with worry over his man being stolen, oh now that is a grand plot! The Spider's Ultimate Goal!"

"Maybe that was it all along. Maybe you already know it." John could feel his heart thudding along in sadness loops, as he saw himself losing here. Not just this battle, but the entire war. "I saw how you acted when there was any contact from him. How you craved it, ached for it, yearned for it."

"John! Stop this! I yearned for the _game_! That's what I needed!"

"Bullshit."

"Oh for God's sake ..."

"You always called him Moriarty, and he called you Sherlock. I knew what _he_ wanted. But now .. you call him James. Sometimes Jim. Everything's changed. Or maybe just - come to full circle. Should I just go, Sherlock?"

"You're being a drama queen and no you should not 'just go'. I'll tie you down, if I have to. I will, and you know I will."

John broke free with a tiny, distressed smile. "Don't sleep with him, Sherlock. I'm begging you. Don't do this."

"Sleep with him?!!" Sherlock stood, and then sat down immediately. _Methinks he protest too much_ , his mind screamed, and he forced himself to calm down. "I have never thought of such a thing. I - I'm hurt, really, I suppose is the word." Sherlock was lying, and it felt odd. His face was hot, and he was fearful. Fearful in a hundred different ways. Would John see? _He_ would have seen. But would John? "I am not a cheat, Dr. Watson. And you will be on the couch tonight."

" _Are_ you in love with him?"

"That's it, going out."

He rose and slipped on the greatcoat and scarf, walking out and down the steps as quickly as he could move.

John watched him go, and brushed at his eyes roughly. " _Cocksucker_.", he muttered in grief.

 

*******

 

Sherlock went to the worst place he could go, and there was no way he wasn't going there. After all, it _was_ his time to go, it was visiting day, and these visits were important. He rapped on the door, and then went in. James would be on heavy sedatives and mood stabilizers. but what Sherlock hadn't expected was for him to still be asleep, sprawled on his bed, in a pyjama bottom and shirtless, bare feet somehow charming as his big toe twitched in a dream. Sherlock watched him for a very long while, longer than he should. but he indulged himself.

He coughed, to awaken him.

"Rise, Sleeping Moriarty, the spell is broken!"

It was a horrifically stupid play on Sleeping Beauty, and Jim opened his eyes. "..........I think I'd better wait for the frog .." He lay there, watching him, not moving a muscle. "Two days? Two days to go?"

"Two days. We're all ready for you."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I want you where I can keep an eye on you. Spiders in containment are much safer to have around."

"Did you do what I asked about Tiger?"

Sherlock frowned. "Mycroft refuses to parole him and I daresay he has every right."

"..........fucking twat you _promised_ me..."

"JAMES now see here."

Jim finally sat up, but he was clearly stricken, clearly worried. "You cared for your friends. Why can't I care for mine, Sherlock? He's the only one I ever had. Ever. They'll kill him in prison."

"He's quite alive, and I think .. my friends were a little easier to worry about than a cold blooded murderer." The instant he said it, he was sorry. Sorry it had come out, not feeling it was in error.

Jim threw the pillow at him, a ridiculous and comedic gesture intended in great anger. "Get out of here!!"

"Absolutely not. Are you packed."

"Will I get my own room, daddy?"

"You certainly will and I much prefer _my_ being daddy than you, this is an improvement!"

"Fuck yourself with a derelict's mummified cock."

" _Language_ young man!!"

Jim laughed, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. But he had to admit, with the powerful anti-psychotics in his system now, he could think in ways he never could before. Clear ways, unmuddied by voices and hysteria. Unhampered by bitterness and hatred and a thousand grudges.

"Yes, I'm packed.'

Sherlock nodded, playing on his phone. "Good good ..."

"You're quite _rude_."

 

"I'm the dad now. So shut the hell up and get dressed. We have much to argue about."

 

TBC

 

 


	2. The Spider's Web

 

Jim walked in with Sherlock, head held high, walking with an elegant walking stick - he refused to think of it as a cane. There was slight brain damage, enough to now slur his speech and slow his attempts to speak, but Sherlock had never made mention of it. Jim was aware. Why he had the difficulty walking, the doctors weren't certain. Jim tried to believe they had looked for everything, found everything going on. After all, they hadn't said a word about the cancer. Not one word ..  and to think he had been ready to die with a flair all because of what looked now to be an erroneous diagnosis.

He'd never tell Sherlock. That would deaden the meaning of the game. 

Perhaps he already knew, anyway.

John sat at the table, and took a very deep breath. He genuinely had no idea what to say to this man. Sherlock either pitied him or loved him, or more likely, both. Pity, John could forgive, even if only barely. The man had clearly suffered, had gone through hell. He was mentally unstable and had needed treatment. Forgiving him because he was a genius was bullshit, if you denied that to a lesser mind. But forgiving him for a chemical instability ..yes, that John could do. But there was more happening here, there was so much more at work and he could read Sherlock, every facial tic, every expression and every nuance and movement. 

Jim was a threat now in a new way. Maybe .. maybe not even all that new.

John was pretty sure he had had a thing for the detective from the very beginning, that had matured into lust and then love. Real love. A sick man's psychotic and death wish permeated love, but _love_.

"I got those tickets to the theatre for tomorrow, Sherlock." John said softly, loathing his own childish attempt to posture for Jim that they were _together_ , damn it.

_Don't tread there. He's all I have, all I ever wanted and you cannot have him._

Jim didn't even spare a glance, but followed Sherlock into his room. Sherlock hadn't even seemed to hear him, but he very suddenly half bounded back out and clapped John on the back, heartily.  "Splendid news then! Great!"  John smiled, his relief rather huge. 

"So - we're still going then?"

"Why wouldn't we be?"

"Will -uh - he be okay here alone?"

"Of course he will, he isn't an infant."

"Sherlock -"

Sherlock started to say something and Jim called for him, in that voice that John had grown to despise, somehow reedy and grating, whining, sensual when sensuality was so wrong, so inappropriate. Moriarty managed to make everything sound dirty somehow, obscenity in his tone every moment. John closed his eyes.

"Go on, see what he wants ..I -"

Sherlock was already on his way, and John sipped at his tea nervously. Sherlock acted like a newlywed groom, seeing to his bride's every need. John fought off the feelings of hatred and spite, telling himself he was better than this. That he was acting like a child, an insecure teenager. He knew he was, and yet the worst thing was, he knew he wasn't that far off course. Sherlock wasn't the only one who could read what was going on. He liked to believe he was, but he was not. He listened as Jim and Sherlock spoke in soft, hushed tones, Jim's light laughter feeling as if it were a direct mockery to John Watson and intended for no other purpose. When Sherlock came back out, John saw something had changed and his heart chilled a few degrees.

"Ah, bad news."

"Don't."

"Oh stop that." Sherlock scolded. "What is the matter with you!"

"Sherlock, if you tell me we can't go -"

"Bloody Christ, I was just going to say we need to get Jim a heater for that room, it's too cold for him in there."

John laughed. 'Oh. Fuck."

"Excuse you, pottymouth?"

"I-- never mind. I have a safe one he can use. I'll go get it right now."

"It won't catch fire and burn him to death will it? I might remind you all our things go with him, if you burn this place down."  Sherlock's lips held a wry sarcasm.

"I'm not a murderer, Sherlock. That's his forte."

"I seem to remember you telling me you could kill when you needed to and have a good meal that night and sleep well."

"I never said anything like that!"

"Then it must have been me."

Sherlock suddenly grasped his wrist, and John started.  "What!"  "You don't trust me, do you. He sees it, did you know that? I see it, Mycroft sees it, Molly sees it, Mrs--"

"Stop."

"You think I'm in love with him."

"..................yes. I do."

"It's called respect."

"So you will say straight out that it isn't love? Because you haven't so far."

"Respect is a form of love."

"No it isn't!"

"Tell me you will stop all this."

"Tell _me_ you aren't in love with James Moriarty, who's tried to kill us all numerous times."

"That man does not even exist."

 

John got to his feet, and now he did the grasping of the arm, but much more roughly. "That man in there -" he snarled. "That man - tell me you aren't in love with him. Sherlock, I swear to God, if --"

"I'm not in love with him."  His left eye twitched sharply, and his pupils changed size.  

"You're _lying_! Oh Christ, you are -"

" _Sherlock_." Jim drawled, in what sounded like an intentionally whining and needy tone. How John hated that voice.

"Don't go to him."

"John .. we will settle this in bed tonight. But I need that heater. You need to get hold of yourself. It's getting out of hand. I love you. We're the same as married. You do remember that?"

"Sherlock!"

This time, it was a demand.

And Sherlock obeyed.

 

John fought off tears and went to get the heater.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Something Wicked This Way Comes

The theatre had been a smashing, incredible success.

John was happy again, for the most, as the night after had been even more of one. Despite wondering if Moriarty were spying on them, or at the very least listening in, he felt they had eliminated the threat between them. They had lain together in peace and contentment after and John had ever forgiven Sherlock's quick trip to Jim's room to peek in on him. He wanted to be sure he was alright, and John hadn't minded now. It was reasonable, Sherlock had already taken over monitoring the medications and making sure Jim took them. Things were looking up, and John felt far less threatened now. Perhaps in time he could genuinely forgive the darkly troubled genius in the other room. Friends was a stretch, but they could make some progress. He wasn't going to rule that out anymore. It was two days later, and he hummed lightly to himself as he made the morning tea and prepared breakfast for all three of them.

Sherlock was still asleep when Jim padded in, with bare feet and tousled dark hair that looked nothing like the immaculately groomed and sleek coiffure he usually had affected. Not even remotely close, in fact, and John smiled a very little bit, just to himself. He didn't have to force so strenuously to be decent to him, and he smiled as he turned around. "Good morning, Jim."

Jim nodded with a yawn, and sat down in a chair. "Hungry ... smells good .." "Thanks. Eggs, bangers, toast, coffee or tea .." "All, and coffee." "Got it. Coming right up."

John went the extra effort and slathered on more butter than usual, as if that might make things a little better for their relationship, spoil him now. Maybe if John spoiled him, Sherlock wouldn't feel the need to. Maybe he could be generous now, be actually kind. "How's the heater working out, staying warm enough?"

"Yeah. Sherlock helped."

"I'm sorry?" John felt something fall out of the bottom of his heart, and he viciously fought off the desire to scream at the man sitting at the table. _Calm down ... calm the fuck down .. you have no idea what he's even talking about! ..._

"Sherlock made sure I stayed warm."

John took another breath.  "Oh? How so?"

"It was cycling off kilter, and he came in and altered it, so now it cycles properly. It's a good heater, though."

"Ah good, well every now and then he does fix things."

He served the meal for them, and kept Sherlock's heated, cursing himself for his easy paranoia. "So ... any plans, Jim? Or just trying to get settled and life on track?"  "Pretty much that, yes. Thanks for letting me come here."

"I -  you're welcome. I think it's going to be alright."

He looked exactly as he had as 'Richard Brook', and John fought off the bad memories of all that bullshit in the past. It wasn't fair to Moriarty, he was trying. He deserved that much. Effort needed to be rewarded. "I think it's great, really, that you're on the right path now, getting your life together. I hope you feel good about it. I know Sherlock has a great deal of respect for it." "I know. I'm doing it for him. " "Good ... but ... also .. you need to do it for yourself, you know, so one day you can be on your own, and have your own life, maybe a family - "

"I can't imagine a life without Sherlock." Jim ate hungrily, almost greedily, ignoring John's eyes on him now. Worried again, just a little bit. Was that obsession still there?

"You can always have him as a friend, but - "

"Forever."

"You could have a family, get married, a wife, kids --" John already knew the answer to that, but something in him made him edge Jim towards saying it.  "I like men. I do intend to get married though. I will, too."

"Of course you will. Just get things settled and in a good mindset, and then you can get your own place. Meet someone, and - "

"Oh Sherlock told me I never have to leave here. He said he wants me with him so he can always see what's happening. And I've already met someone."

_Never._

_Leave ...._

John pushed through. "Oh? At the Institute? "  "Well, I would see him there, but he wasn't from there."

"Anyone I know?"  John asked through gritted teeth.  "Yeah."

"Want to tell me who?"

"Excuse me, John."  Jim got up and headed for the bathroom. John watched the empty seat as if it had a tale to tell. Sherlock finally came in and sat at the other chair, just as Jim came back in and sat back down. He did not answer the question.  "Jim was just telling me he met someone, Sherlock."  "Met someone? He's met lots of people .."  

"As in _romantically_."  

" _Oh_?!"  John shuddered at the expression on Sherlock's face. It was disappointment and some true anger. John knew him very, very well.

Jim watched with a smile. "Jealous. honey?"  John flinched. _How dare you ..._. but he turned to see what Sherlock might say. "I think you are in no condition to be spouting such things, James."

"Do you want to meet him."

"No."  Sherlock's voice was deep and cold. The ice of hurt. John felt the room sway and spin but it was only his emotions.

"All you have to do is look in the mirror."

Sherlock looked up and laughed, and Jim got up from the table, going back to his room. His smile was reptilian. John stared after him, and then turned to Sherlock. "What - the - fuck. Really?!"

"Oh come on, he's joking!"

"No, he isn't. And I saw the relief on your fucking face."

"Oh JOHN. Come _on_."

John got up, and walked to get his coat.  "Your breakfast is on the stove. Try not to choke to death on it. Or ..either way."  He walked out into the cold morning, and Sherlock lost his smile. He did not go in to Jim. 

 

Nor after John.

 

 

 

 


	4. Shape Of Things To Come

 

The good feeling John had dared to dream of no longer seemed possible, as he and Sherlock had done nothing but argue for weeks on end now.

Sherlock had even dragged Jim half naked from his room to tell John that he had been joking, that there was nothing going on, and Jim had dutifully obeyed, agreeing that of course, certainly he had been joking. John had finally calmed and settled down about it, but Sherlock was still angry at all of this. Angriest, perhaps, at himself. But he was angry at John as well, and even though he knew it was wrong, the resentment remained. Jim rarely came out of his room now, and Sherlock sat down with John to talk about that, his face set and stern in unhappiness.

"He doesn't even come out now, thanks to your outbursts. You've traumatized him."

"He said outright, _in front of me_ , that he wanted you."

"It was a joke. We've settled that."

John considered his options. He could push this, and shove Sherlock farther and farther away. He could ensure the breakup of his own relationship. Or he could play the game. Whatever the hell this game even was now. "Right ... okay .. then .. let's let it lie where it lies."  "But he won't come out now. He's afraid of you."

That choked out a laugh from John, there was no holding that one back.  "Don't .. be funny."

"I'm not joking, John! This isn't helping him!"

"It isn't helping me either."

"You aren't _sick_!"

His inner goodness and basic decency fought their way back up to the surface, and John relented. Even if Moriarty was trying to steal Sherlock, and Sherlock was a bit flattered, it wasn't worth wrecking the chance to possibly redeem a great mind like the one Jim clearly did have. If he could truly be saved from himself, he might be the man to cure cancer, or a hundred other heroic possibilities. Sherlock loved John, they were close, they were, as Sherlock had said, very nearly married. He was sabotaging their happiness over the jealousy he felt for a very lonely, very sick man. He took another of the endless deep breaths, and nodded again. "I'll go talk to him."

"Good."

John went to the door, and rapped lightly.

  
"Come in." Jim called cheerfully, but sat up in alarm as John walked through the door. "Oh ..."  John noted he was wearing a set of Sherlock's pyjamas and they were far too big for him. "Look, I want you to feel comfortable here again. Sherlock and I have worked out our issues, and things are going to be calm. No more drama."

"Well that's a relief."

"So ..  I hope you'll come on out and watch some telly with us in a few ... I did make tea and even cocoa .. your favourite, with the white cream."  "How nice, thank you John." Jim smiled his easy, somehow wet smile.

"Good deal then."  
  


John went out, and joined Sherlock on the new couch watching a comedy. Jim soon joined them as well, and sat down on the other side, next to Sherlock. There wasn't much room. John ignored this. He wasn't doing this anymore, it was going to be a self fulfilling prophecy if he couldn't get himself back under some control. The comedy sank into a talk show, and then finally into a movie. Jim had by now nestled against Sherlock, relaxed completely. The taller man clearly didn't mind, even as Jim fell asleep and settled fully down against him.  "Look at this! Just like a child!"  Sherlock murmured, careful to not wake him.

"Maybe you should wake him up so he can go lay down."

"He's fine."

Sherlock's arm causally draped over Jim eventually, as he settled down into the cushions to get more comfortable. His other arm looped around John's shoulders. "I rather like this movie. Everyone isn't a total moron."

Jim snored lightly.  John forced himself to maintain.  "He should go in to bed."  "I'd have to carry him. "  "Or wake him up and let him walk like a grown man?"

"Walking ..."

"What about it?"

"Walking makes him sore, it seems."

"Ah."

Jim murmured in his sleep and shifted, now laying face first against Sherlock's chest, nuzzled against him peacefully. John found he could grit his teeth harder than he ever imagined without them actually breaking. 

"He seems so different now."

"You told him he could live here forever?"

"Well, we aren't going to live forever, any of us."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I did."

"What about me?"

"You may stay as well."

"I mean ...........damn it.  You didn't ask me what I felt about that."

"I'm sorry, then."

"What if I say no?"

Sherlock fell silent and John took that as an answer in itself. "Mycroft is coming tomorrow."  "Oh?"  "To see how things are going."

"Ah .."

"Don't tell him anything negative, John, I mean it. I'll be so cross if you do."

"............."

"Have I made myself clear."

"Crystal."  
  
  


John stayed, and watched the end of the movie, not budging or even turning his head as Sherlock eventually did carry Jim in to bed. When he didn't come back out, John stayed on the couch. It was the longest night he could remember in his entire life.

 

 

 

 


	5. Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

Time moves more slowly when hope has died a death.

Jim waited out the next three or four tense, miserable weeks of John and Sherlock arguing and the long, cold periods of silence. He had a television in his room, a laptop, and he puttered away happily to the backdrop of their sad and vicious fighting. Sherlock wouldn't hear the soft giggles of delight from the room, he was too busy shouting and sometimes objects took wing in the flat now, thrown by one or both of the men as their relationship was tossed on the stormy seas of what it had now become. He did not want John to leave, not yet. Jim's bitterness was a deep well, and it had not even begun to be tapped into. No, he wanted - no - needed - John Watson to stay. This was better than any theatre, any play for any price. This was real life, this was chaos and this was exactly what his wounded soul needed now. John's suffering and clear hurt was a balm to his spirit, and Jim was so careful to never outwardly show any sign of enjoying their ruin. He would occasionally show John great kindness, both known and unknown to Sherlock. Bringing him warm bisque when he was fallen ill, crackers on the side arranged just so, making certain in fact that he did it when Sherlock did not see.

"I don't want to cause any more trouble." he had said with a soft frown, all the picture of guilt and remorse. 

John wanted to hate Jim and he couldn't. Because after all, Jim was sick. Sherlock was the villain here, and he damned well wanted to be sure he understood that. Jim had been ... kind. Kind in ways that made no sense if it was all just a game, after all. But John was making the mistake of judging with a sane man's rules and motives. He could have never hoped to understand the inner workings of the fevered mind of James Moriarty. Sherlock, if he had known, would have seen, would have realized, but Jim worked his manipulative magic out of sight, out of sound. And once again, John fell sick. He began to have stomach and intestinal issues that were slowly but certainly becoming more and more serious. One night, they finally arrived to the point of being literally at a grave point, and it was Jim who insisted on caring for him. John of course decided to self diagnose, and Jim neither fawned nor scolded, paying more attention to John than he had done to Sherlock at any point now. The anger and jealousy shone in Sherlock's blue eyes and he finally pushed Jim against the kitchen wall, seething, breathing in harsh, ragged tones of hurt distress.

"What's going on."

"What .... what's the matter?!" Confused, shocked, a little afraid. Yes.

"You have a thing for him?"

"What?! Are you - I thought I was the insane one - " Jim laughed, and Sherlock slapped him. Jim gasped, and it was a sincere reaction, he hadn't seen that coming at all. "Sherlock!.... what the ..." Sherlock grabbed a handful of the black hair, tightly. He was so angry his muscles were numb, tight, corded up. "............" "Sherlock .... calm down .... " Jim's face was hot where he had been struck, but he held still. The truth was, Sherlock was dangerous, and it was dancing on this thin red line, this glazed ice that threatened to give way at any moment, this was the thrill, this was the sweet, sweet addiction. Sherlock moved closer, and his eyes dug into Jim's, relentless, merciless, cruel even. He made no effort to calm down, and all he knew at this moment was the twin torment of being equally jealous of Jim and John both, with one another and for himself as well. This was Hell, this had to be Hell! "........................I didn't bring you here for this!!...." 

Jim swallowed, submissive as any child, even as his hair was pulled so painfully. "What did you bring me here for, beautiful?" His voice was a cutting whisper, as he stared back, dark void-eyes meeting Sherlock's azure challenge, fighting him back now, defying his power even as he caved at the very same time. "I haven't done anything wrong. And you know I haven't. Let go of my hair, Sherly. That really fucking hurts ...." Sherlock yanked his hair hard, and let go. And then moved close, like a striking serpent, their lips touching but the kiss cut off as Sherlock withdrew instantly from what he had himself just begun. " .....you little son of a bitch. ...." He walked off and left Jim there, slightly shaken and yet with a smirk of triumph on his face. He was aching and hard, aroused and upset, and above all ...

Victorious.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mycroft had not shown as promised, and four weeks later he had still not done so.

Sherlock finally called, and it was a call he had not wanted to make, and once the conversation truly began he remembered why. Small talk, and then .. not so small talk at all. Bad talk.

 

"I'm making arrangements for him to move out of there."

"No, you are most certainly not."

"John called me. He isn't happy, and Jim is destroying what you have with him. As we all knew was going to happen, of course. But I won't allow it. This is my final word."

"If you lay a hand on Moriarty, I will --"

"You will nothing, Brother Mine. He has to go. I'm not going to harm him."

"Got your fill before, when you had him and tortured him? Torture really is illegal for all, even you, Mycroft... "

"I will collect him in the morning and I will be making a show of force. Don't make this difficult, you can at this point still see him. If you want to press me ..."

"Don't do this! I'm warning you!! ..."

"It's already done."

The connection was cut off, and Sherlock felt his heart sink in despair and fury. He feared what he might do to Mycroft, and what he might say to John. What he might do to John, even more, really. How dare he go behind him this way. How dare he!

So now - what to even do? How to handle this?

It took five minutes to bundle himself and Jim into a taxi and head for the countryside. There was, it seemed, very little else to be done at this time but take such a rash and drastic action. And it was all thanks to John, all of this was on John. Sherlock had no way of knowing John had never called Mycroft at all, that it had in fact been Jim who had called and left word for Mycroft, tearfully begging for something to be done. Such was the way in which Jim Moriarty's mind worked. Such was the delirious madness that 221B was now falling into, an endless pit where the screaming could not end when you hit bottom because.... you never did.

 

TBC ~ The Moors


	6. Round The Far Turn .. And Headed For Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ Apologies for the delay, rl ate me alive, unfortunately. ]

This was, to put it very mildly, a delight. It brought Jim such a total sense of satisfaction, it was difficult to even see the dangers that lay ahead. All that mattered for him right now was the immediate gratification that was at hand. Things were really rocking and rolling now. It was close. Jim could feel it. He could almost taste it. 

They were in a small - no - tiny - cottage, on the shore of a fen-lake.

Jim cooked for them. He cooked often, and well, and Sherlock went alone to the hamlet nearby to collect groceries almost every day. They went through a good amount of food. Sherlock had complained he had lost his phone. Jim had only smiled, and said that was a real shame then. Of course, the fen-lake had an interesting addition at the very bottom, in the peat and bog. Jim was not about to allow Sherlock to contact John Watson or vice versa. And Sherlock had seemed so tired, hadn't he. Almost as if he no longer had the strength to fight for the right to communicate with the outside world. Jim knew the time was here at last, and on a Sunday night, about 7 O Clock, just after a light dinner of roast quail salad, he made the move he'd waited for all this time. Sherlock had been seated in the plush old armchair that so strongly resembled his own back in 221B, and Jim moved close, unbidden. They had spoken very little this entire time. Small talk, nothing important. Really there was a pseudo surreal sense to it all now. They had to confront the thing that was not an elephant in the room but a dragon.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"You know my name, very good."  
  
Dry, half teasing, sarcastic. Some passive aggressive in there. He missed John, which only aggravated Jim and told him he had to move now.

"You going to treat me like something you stepped in the entire time we're here? Why are you being such a prick?"

Sherlock's fingers curled, and his neck tendons tightened. "Because .. even someone with mental issues, such as yourself, doesn't have to do the things you do. I've given you a nearly free pass for your sadism, your crimes, your - all because you are sick. Yes, you are assuredly sick. But there's thousands of people as ill or even more so, that don't do the evil things you do! John knew that, saw it, and here I am with you, all to protect you, and I've lost my best friend over this. Yet, the thing is, Jim, the worst thing of all, you haven't changed. You never will. And that's a deliberate decision. It isn't being ill. This is you. This is the dark part of you. There's a good part, but you shit on that, and grind it under your heel. You think I didn't realize all these weeks that you were working to separate me from John? Are you really so foolish as to see me that dense?" 

Jim's throat worked a bit, but he stood calmly. Not moving.  "Is that all? Just wanted to rip me apart some?"

  
"No, that isn't all. I've sacrificed my entire life to protect you, even knowing what a snake you are, what you've done, and you need to realize, to understand, I do know. I know _everything_ about what's been going on. All of it. Diabolical little bastard."  
  
Jim felt tears sting his eyes, even though Sherlock was of course completely correct. Utterly. "Are you done.", he whispered, refusing -he hoped - to break down.  
  
Sherlock moved out of the chair suddenly, and Jim almost cried out in fear, startled, but Sherlock's arms were around him and a seething kiss claimed his soul, no room and no mercy to even breathe, held in a death grasp, Sherlock as always so much stronger than he remembered. Sherlock's fingers tore at his hair, pulling it, there was a savagery to it, and Jim's heartbeat was galloping in mingled and warring reactions and emotions. Just as suddenly, the kiss ended, and Sherlock shoved him away.  
  
"I hate you for making me fall in love."  
  
Sherlock's bedroom door slammed, and locked. Jim stared at it. For once in his life, he was completely speechless.  
  


 

  
  
Eight weeks.  
  
Eight weeks in which Jim discovered that Sherlock had brought no less than three phones with them. That he had been in constant contact with not only Mycroft but John the entire time. It had been a farce, but it wasn't Jim's stage play, as he believed. Sherlock and the others had been behind it this time. He had been played and beaten at his own game. And knowing this, he was trapped with an angry Sherlock who cut him down to size every day, sparing him nothing, leaving him in tears every night. Sherlock punished him soundly, the lesson was vicious and harsh, and Jim caved, defeated and emotionally exhausted. Admitted yes, he had made a mistake, yes, he had tried to tear them apart, yes, yes, it was all deliberate, all done in intentional purpose. Yes, yes, to everything.   
  
Eight _fucking_ weeks.  
  
No more kisses.  
  
No more touching.  
  
No more kindness of any sort.  
  
The morning came when the car was packed, and Jim fled on foot, he was not going back, going back to what, exactly? Hell no, fuck that. No. He'd drown himself in the fen. He could hear Sherlock behind him, calling out, threatening. Dire threats, too. He ran all the faster, and plunged himself into the foggy lake, which was barely six feet deep at best. Plunged down into it, relaxing and praying for death, praying to be able to make himself inhale the thick green water. A hand grasped his hair, and he was pulled up, gathered like a violent child, carried to the grassy shore of mud and weeds. Sherlock slapped him in the face, and Jim broke. That was the moment, the completion. He burst into scorching sobs that wracked him apart, and Sherlock pulled him into his arms and let him scream and cry it out. Finally exhaustion took him, and the painful tears ebbed into quiet moans and whimpers. Sherlock was silent, waiting. So patient, laying there in the mud, holding the small man that had - indeed- burned the heart out of him.  
  
"Now, are _you_ done?"  
  
Jim nodded, still gasping out the last of his misery.  
  
"Jim."

"............what."

  
"I love you. Now never imagine you're going to hear that again, any time soon. Get yourself together and get in the car. You owe John an apology. We are going home. _Now_."

 

TBC.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
